


hallowed heart

by Lightningpelt



Category: Naruto
Genre: (disclaimer: i don't know how they ended up in the afterlife), (let me have my fun), (they're just there and it's never properly explained), Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dark, Devotion, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gore, Hell, Horror, Intense, Jashinism, M/M, Psychological Horror, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 19:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightningpelt/pseuds/Lightningpelt
Summary: Hidan's gone and lost Kakuzu's favorite heart.Jashin-sama watches with contempt.





	hallowed heart

**Author's Note:**

> Suggested Listening: [Dark of You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LrkMczxtmS4), [Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJWLLIMC0b4), and [Save Yourself](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RucPlXRPong) by Breaking Benjamin ~~the whole[Ember](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfLKWetk-ck&list=PL9hYR5qRkc2xPWHncP8UJrjm0WtbRpddN) album, for that matter~~. 
> 
> Warnings for gore, blood, body horror, etc., as well as language and some non-explicit sexual innuendo.

It’s raining.

Hidan isn’t sure whether he can feel or hear the pattering of heavy droplets; isn’t sure whether it’s the rain that’s chilled him, numbing his skin, or something else. He certainly can’t _see_. But he knows it’s raining, and he also knows that somehow that _isn’t right_. It can’t be raining. This isn’t Mist or even Leaf—they were on a mission in Sand country. It doesn’t rain in Sand.

There’s also the conspicuous absence of his partner. He’s alone. Hidan tries—to no avail—to remember where his walking-corpse partner might have wandered off to. They passed a bounty-collection office not far back up the road, if Hidan remembers correctly; maybe that’s where he’s gone.

There’s moaning. Hidan can hear it just beneath the sound of the rain. Although the rain is predominant, the moaning is there, too. It’s a tortured chorus—suffering. It’s a sound that Jashin-sama would love.

It’s too dark to see anything at all.

Hidan tries to fidget, as he’s no real good at staying still, but he can’t find his limbs in order to do so. They don’t seem to exist. He sighs; stays still; mumbles a curse.

Time has less significance than usual. Hidan heaves another irritated sigh, unable to make sense of it.

A lurid, pale face leers from the darkness, and Hidan gives a strangled shriek of surprise. But then he leans forward; thinks the face is familiar, after all.

A razor digit extends; pierces Hidan’s chest with the expected flash of crimson blood. In the pain that shudders through his incorporeal body, Hidan recognizes his god, and he smiles.

“Jashin... sama... praise and glory be...”

The specter nods, just slightly, and Hidan gasps in obscene pleasure as pain washes through him. Not just any pain—death. His god has granted him the divine agony of death.

Then the digit withdraws, pulling out and leaving Hidan gasping with the sudden sense of emptiness. Pleasure still radiates through him, warm like fresh blood, but his chest feels hollow—his heart ravaged and the invader gone. A sense of his body returns to him, and he slumps to his knees. A figure shimmers into existence beside him, and he tilts his head back to look at it.

“Jashin-sama...”

The reaper stands clothed in a white robe, stark against the surroundings; god's flesh is painted a familiar pattern of black and white. Hidan thinks he should say something, and so he does, still wearing a sloppy, sated grin in the afterglow of death.

“Thank you for granting me your image, during rituals. Thank you for your blessing, Jashin-sama.”

The specter doesn’t turn, doesn’t seem to move. But Hidan knows his god is pleased, and smiles more brightly.

Jashin raises one hand slowly; sweeps it across the darkness and opens a huge swath in the fabric that seems to exist there. Hidan leans forward, peering ahead as his eyes adjust, and takes a sharp breath. The moaning has grown markedly louder, and he notices that the rain is gone.

“Holy shit! That’s—!”

Jashin does not move, but Hidan edges forward, still on his knees, and leans toward the window—a gap as tall as he is, and several meters wide. Hot blood drips in clots from his chest, falling away into the abyss—into the writhing pit of _souls_ below. They moan, the sound of blessed agony, and it makes Hidan’s whole being sing exaltations.

“Ha-ha...” He laughs; looks toward his god, _feels_ Jashin’s pleasure with both the sight and his reaction, and laughs again more freely. He whoops and cackles, a delighted, unhinged sound that makes his ravaged chest ache.

“Praise be to Jashin-sama!” he crows, and leans forward on his hands to shout, “You heathens! Unrepentant shit bastards! Do you understand pain now?! How it unifies all of you?! How _death_ is the only, _glorious_ commonality between you? Do you understand? Do you accept the _truth_?!”

Hidan leans back, clutching at his own chest, at the fleshy pulp inside the gaping wound, and keens, low and needy, at the sensation. Hot with arousal, he pants, pawing at the place his heart should nestle. He gasps out a prayer, and then collapses at the feet of his god.

Jashin’s approval radiates off the god, bathing Hidan like indulgent sunbeams, drawing out the ecstatic revelry into something more, into something near-unbearable. Hidan can’t think, can scarcely breathe, and chokes on half-coherent hymns as he convulses.

By the time the intensity ebbs, he’s struggling to stay conscious, vision obscured by dancing light and one hand buried to the wrist in his open breast. He lies for a moment, aware of Jashin still standing beside him, and his chest heaves. He closes his eyes and whispers one last prayer: "... the will of— _aaah—_ Jashin-sama, our god in eternal suffering, be done... that in death we may find truth..." 

Hidan sits up; casts his gaze lazily toward the mass of human souls that thrash in agony rather than revelry. _How pathetic..._  he thinks, smiling. _They should enjoy..._  and then the thought trails off; his eyes widen, for there’s something faintly familiar in that heaving tide of suffering. He leans forward, finally removing his hand with a wet _squelch_ from his chest, and peers again downwards.

“Hey... Hey!” His eyes grow huge, pale red irises painted a deeper crimson by the lighting. “Kakuzu!”

The scarred face is familiar among the hundreds of screaming visages; he does not scream. He stares, his forest-green gaze finding Hidan’s and fixating there.

Hidan’s never really been able to read his partner, at least not through his eyes, and that seems not to have changed.

“Oi, Kakuzu!” he calls, waving, and feels a flicker of interest from the god behind him. “Haha! Pathetic heathen! Look! Look at who was right after all! What do you say, old man, what do you say?!”

Kakuzu does not respond; does not even blink. But his back begins to writhe, and from it squirms a _thing_ , a bundle of living black tendrils and, at its center, a heart.

Hidan brightens, his lusty smile solidifying, turning eager. “Coming out to see me, Kaze-chan?” he calls to the wind mask, and leans a bit farther out. “And Mizu-chan, too?”

The two masks struggle, for a moment, and Kakuzu bends forward as if to help them. The wind mask opens its mouth, then falters; goes down heavily as one arm folds. Hidan’s smile wavers, even as Kakuzu remains impassive; unreadable.

The wind mask gives a sudden and feeble shriek as it convulses, then withers away at Kakuzu’s back. The water mask struggles for a moment more, tendrils flailing as if trying to grasp something, and then it dissolves in a fizzling, noxious mess. The lightning mask _screams_.

“Oi!” Hidan shouts, his hands shaking with uncertain terror; with unexpected horror. His god takes no notice. “Oi, Kakuzu! Shit, what’s—?! Kakuzu! Kakuzu, what’s happening?! Hey, answer me, you stupid old man! Your hearts, they’re all—!”

Kakuzu blinks, long and slow, holding Hidan’s stricken gaze. The lightning mask is still screaming, but softer now, dying. It fades away. The last, the fire mask, melts from Kakuzu’s back in a wretched heap, sizzling and trying to cry out and failing, simply dying.

 _Four._ Hidan feels as though his own heart jumps, although Jashin has left his chest deathly empty. _Four. Four. Four._

_The fifth is the last._

“Kakuzu!!!” Hidan screams, his voice rough and hitched. He stretches forward; leans precariously out.

Kakuzu’s face twists, the stitches digging further into the flesh. He looks _pained_ , and there’s no pleasure in Kakuzu’s pain. Kakuzu knows suffering.

“Jashin-sama!” Hidan exclaims suddenly, and turns. He pulls himself, legs sprawling behind, to his deity’s feet, and he bows. “Fetch that one! The old man with the spare hearts! He doesn’t—! He isn’t—! Shouldn’t—!”

Hidan feels Jashin’s question; perceives god’s spite.

“He’s no believer,” Hidan admits. “He’s a greedy heathen bastard, stupid and pushy and stingy as all fuck, but he _knows_ suffering. He understands the truth. There’s no need for him to experience more—he already has, and he understands. He can’t quote your divine scripture, but he accepts pain as truth, and suffering as life. So he shouldn’t be down there, _dying_!”

Jashin’s head tilts back, just a bit, and Hidan flinches from his god’s derisive skepticism. The warm glow is gone, now, and again it’s raining—Hidan can feel it drumming against his skin.

But he turns, and sees Kakuzu—meets Kakuzu’s deep green gaze, and he can see exhaustion there. He can see pain. Kakuzu’s lived for a long time, far longer than Hidan, and doesn’t often let it show. But sometimes Hidan’s glimpsed the weariness—usually at night, when Kakuzu mutters about aching feet or a sore back. Hidan knows he’s not _just_ talking about his body; knows he’s tired, so tired.

Hidan has admired all the suffering Kakuzu has seen, weathered, and emerged stronger for having experienced. _He must know the truth about as well as Jashin-sama,_ he’s thought on more than one occasion, _with all the pain that’s carved those handsome old shoulders._

_If only he’d accept Jashin-sama._

 

 

“Kuzu... Jashin-sama would love you...” Hidan kissed Kakuzu’s roughened skin, just above the collar bone. “He’d love you... better’n I do...”

Kakuzu grunted, shoving Hidan off his chest and onto the bed beside him. Hidan chuckled, even as Kakuzu rolled over and curled slightly in on himself. “I’m in no mood for your religious drivel,” he rumbled, pulling the blankets up—but not far enough up to conceal his back.

“Aww, no fun, Kuzu...” Hidan whined, tracing the wind mask with one forefinger. The creature wriggled just slightly under his touch. “For Kaze-chan,” he said, kissing the mask on the forehead, and then repeated the motion in succession for the other three, “for Mizu-chan, for Kasai-chan, and for Rai-chan.”

Kakuzu muttered something, but didn’t shift away; didn’t object.

“Now, you four know all about Jashin-sama, don’t you?” Hidan asked the masks, his voice slurred with the faintest beginnings of sleep. “You need t’ talk to your papa Kuzu about Jashin-sama, just like we talked about, okay?”

“Hidan. Shut up.”

“Now, you guys don’t tell him it’s coming from me, now, you hear? ‘Cause then he won’t listen.”

“Hidan. Hidan, they are me. You know that.”

“Jashin-sama would _love_ your papa Kuzu, and he’d take _care_ of him, and he’d make _allllll_ his suffering feel just like bliss, make it all just... _make sense_...”

“Hidan, for the love of _fuck_ , shut up.”

“And I care about your papa Kuzu, now, so we’ll just talk to him about Lord Jashin. And then he really will live forever, with you lil guys, and with me.”

 

 

“Kakuzu!!!” Hidan shrieks, breaking away from where his god stands and scrabbling to the edge of the tear. The rain batters down on his shoulders, furious.

Kakuzu’s head rises, just a bit. His eyes glint. He says something, although he’s too distant and its said too softly for Hidan to hear, and the stitches make reading his lips near impossible.

Still, Hidan knows.

_Hidan, you fool..._

Jashin exudes displeasure behind him, and it _hurts_ —not the blessed sort of hurt, either—but Hidan can’t worry about that. He mutters a prayer—mostly habit, since his god clearly disapproves—and then flings himself down from his precipice. Kakuzu watches him fall.

For a moment, mid-air, the rain seems to stop; he falls with it. Then he slows, though there’s no impact, and the raindrops crash on his skin once again. Blood and viscera from the hole in his chest spatter down with the rain.

Kakuzu doesn’t try to move to meet him, and the other tortured souls of nonbelievers don’t make it easy for Hidan to reach him. They clutch at him, screeching, wailing, crying, begging, cursing, for they’ve seen him, standing beside the reaper. Hidan lashes out, missing his scythe, and fights through them. They’re weak—too weak to stop him, but just strong enough to slow him, to damage him.

He reaches Kakuzu, more bloodied than before—that doesn’t matter. Someone took out an eye, but all he needs is one; all he needs is to see Kakuzu’s face, so tired, so handsome; rugged and etched with all the pain he’s endured so beautifully. Hidan reaches out to touch it, and realizes someone tore off a finger; it doesn’t matter. He touches Kakuzu’s cheek, smearing blood across the tanned skin.

Kakuzu leans into his touch. Kakuzu has _never_ leaned into his touch, and Hidan’s whole body sings. A phantom heart rises in his chest.

“Hidan...” Kakuzu rumbles, and his voice is a bit hoarse but still strong; still _Kakuzu_. “You idiot...”

Hidan laughs, a high, frantic sound. He presses their foreheads together, and feels Kakuzu lean more heavily in.

“You idiot...” Kakuzu repeats, and this time there’s a catch in his voice. Hidan presses his free hand to that powerful chest, strong, muscled, and feels the frenzied pounding of one last heart.

“If I still had one it’d be yours,” he mumbles, and Kakuzu makes a low, questioning sound in his throat. “A heart. Bastard god stabbed mine out. But if it was there, it’d be yours to take.”

“Hidan...”

“What? What, Kakuzu?”

“Just... stop talking. Just shut up.”

Hidan laughs faintly, and then feels Kakuzu’s arms encircle him. Those arms are stronger than they should be, at Kakuzu’s age; they’ve never borne an elder’s frailty. Hidan hasn’t often gotten to feel them coil around him, not without a broken bone or two for his pleasure, but the bliss of it is like nothing short of divine death. He lowers his head, almost sobbing into Kakuzu’s shoulder, but stops himself from going that far. Kakuzu is straightening, struggling free of the viscous, caustic energy that swirls about him and the other damned souls.

“You’re a mess...” Kakuzu grumbles, although whether he’s referring to the near-breakdown or the menagerie of blood and fluids leaking into him is a mystery. Kakuzu picks his way through the dead bodies of those Hidan fended off to reach him—those dying wretches who, to their credit, had claimed an eye and a couple of fingers and broken a half-dozen ribs and dug out clumps of viscera and snapped a femur. When Kakuzu stumbles free, he sags to his knees, allowing Hidan’s broken body to spill, limp, from his arms.

Kakuzu touches the gaping hole in Hidan’s chest. “This one was my favorite heart...” he breaths, and Hidan’s sure there’s never been a more romantic thing ever said by anyone, dead or alive. With his other hand, Kakuzu entangles their fingers. “I’ll have to kill you for loosing it.”

Hidan chuckles. “I can’t die, mor-on,” he wheezes, and then closes his eyes; arches his back slightly. “Fuuuck this hurts...”

“You should’ve just stayed up there.” Kakuzu flicks his head up, to where Jashin still stands, watching. “Idiot. I just would’ve died.”

“What’s the point, then?”

The question makes Kakuzu blink, and he peers down as though Hidan’s spoken in a different language altogether. “... Come again?”

“I said, then what’s the _point_ , old man!” Hidan snaps, with as much energy as he could muster. He coughs; reaches up and grips Kakuzu’s shoulder, surprisingly tightly. “You’re supposed to be the one I don’t have to say goodbye to. You’re immortal, too...”

Kakuzu’s eyes widen, just a touch, and he stoops down; presses their foreheads together, and untangles Hidan’s fingers from around his shoulder. “Then watch me go slay your god. Then we’ll go off, together, and you can worship _me_ instead.”

“Kuzu...” Hidan appeals, with a crooked little smile. “Jashin-sama would take care of it all, if you’d just accept Him.”

Kakuzu shakes his head. “Fool. I don’t need to be taken care of. Never had. Never will.”

“I’d take care of you, if you needed it.”

Kakuzu’s mouth curls up—just the one corner. The scar on his cheek wrinkles. “Perhaps.”

Kakuzu stands, then, although he’s unsteady; although the remains of his spare hearts are still leaking out his shredded back like grisly black guts. He tightens one fist, feeling his old standby jutsu—Earth Style: Earth Spear—trigger, despite his state. _Good..._

Jashin still stands, gazing down through that rift. He disapproves. The disapproval of a god is oppressive, stifling movement and free-thought.

The rain beats down harder, threatening a flood.

Still, Kakuzu stands, and stands tall. In that moment, even in the eyes of the zealot Hidan, He outshines god.

Hidan sighs, a soft and contented sound. He relaxes.When Kakuzu gets serious, there’s nothing left to worry about.

Kakuzu walks calmly, though his steps are heavy, ascending stairs invisible to the naked eye. Jashin waits. When Kakuzu reaches the tear in reality, he steps through it without hesitation.

“You don’t live up to the stories Hidan’s told me,” he says to god, and Jashin’s head tilts. Kakuzu draws his fist back. “I’ll bet you even bleed.”

His swing misses; Jashin ducks, with a swish of brilliant white robes, and then strikes—blinding, impossibly fast. Kakuzu wheezes as god’s hand slams solidly into his stomach; Kakuzu’s skin can’t harden in time to protect him. He tastes blood, and gags.

Jashin does not stop, pressing deeper, penetrating roughened, dark skin and invading Kakuzu’s innards with a _squelch_. Kakuzu’s last heart beats faster, faster, hazardously fast—he wonders if it’ll give out.

It carries on doggedly.

Jashin’s expression doesn’t change, that skeletal mask of black and white, but god’s aura is charged with wrath. Kakuzu knows death—has experienced it many times, although not with the same relish as Hidan—and he recognizes its cold, cloying feel. His vision dims.

God’s face reminds him of Hidan’s, and that’s some small mercy.

Jashin lurches suddenly, and Kakuzu forces his eyes to focus. When the split, blurry images come together, two faces remain—shades of one another, both painted in ritual black and white.

“Hidan...?”

Hidan’s feet slide apart for leverage, because he has his old scythe clutched in his hands, and the three prongs are buried deep in the side of his god. Jashin has the courtesy to look mildly surprised.

“Not... _him_!” Hidan snarls, and Kakuzu doesn’t know what to make of it. Though he’s seen this ritual form many times before, face twisted in crazed rapture, this time Hidan looks _enraged_ , and it’s the most frightening sight Kakuzu has ever beheld.

Again, god has the decency to react, recoiling and stepping away from Kakuzu. The scythe keeps Jashin from going far, though, and Hidan follows. His wounds are hidden, a gray robe billowing as he moves, but he still favors the leg with the broken femur; still has one eye shut. Not healed, but not fatal; not debilitating.

Jashin twists; grabs Hidan’s wrist. The god _rages_ , and the rain comes in driving waves.

Hidan doesn’t flinch. He mumbles a prayer—“... as suffering is truth, let the truth be made known, in the name of the Lord, Jashin-sama, from whom all suffering flows and to whom all suffering returns...”—and forces the scythe forward with all the strength he has.

Jashin twitches; thrusts out a hand, the one painted with Kakuzu’s blood, and conjures a scythe—a black, ephemeral thing, with one vicious, double-sides blade and a serrated edge. It swings, and Hidan ducks; doesn’t release his grip on his own scythe and drives it deeper when Jashin tries to squirm away. The god’s scythe comes down, and this time Hidan doesn’t dodge, but takes the hit; goes down onto one knee as the blade skewers his shoulder with a dark splash of blood. He drags Jashin with him, using the momentum to wrench his scythe down and sideways. All three blades gouge through the god, forcing Jashin’s legs to fold.

The god flickers with palpable surprise, glowing eyes fixed on Hidan. Hidan grins.

“You gifted me with this power, Jashin-sama, all praise be to You. It isn’t yours to control, anymore.”

Hidan sinks lower, drawing Jashin along with him, until they’re both on the ground. Jashin tries to wrench the scythe free from Hidan’s body, but it’s lodged there—sheathed, functionally, and so useless. The rain hammers down, each droplet capable of bruising or splitting skin. It’s dizzying, and Hidan’s mind begins to fog with it. But he mumbles prayers, chanting mantras that have kept him conscious through far worse rituals before, and he smiles. He softly sings a hymn of coming death, and doesn’t expect to survive this time. He and his god will perish here, and share in the ultimate epiphany of death’s agony. His senses _buzz_ with the beginnings of ecstasy, yet this time there’s a taint of bitter sadness.

Then another voice is rasping familiar words—the ritual words, “... that binds us, that ties us, this human suffering; the ultimate pain that is the end of this life: death, the union with our Lord, Jashin-sama...” and Kakuzu is there, kneeling beside the god and his disciple. Jashin’s head twitches, but god can’t look away from Hidan, nor can Hidan look away from god.

Hidan does loose his voice for a moment, though, and then mumbles, “You were listening after all, ehh?”

Kakuzu grants him a slight glare, but doesn’t stop reciting the words of Hidan’s holy scripture. With grim, surgical precision, his threads tear into god’s wrist, severing muscle and pulling out tendons until Jashin’s grip on the scythe goes slack. There is no blood from god’s wound, but the hot rain reeks of the metallic liquid as it batters them.

Finding himself able to stand, relieved of the pressure from god's scythe, Hidan does so. He can feel Jashin’s own power pulsing through him, and he’s suddenly sure—his god has given him the most wonderful gift, but god doesn’t understand its significance. God, immortal, all-powerful, has never experienced the ultimate truth. The faint sense of bewilderment clinging to Jashin proves that, as Hidan shifts his grip on his scythe.

Kakuzu is mumbling the prayer, still. Hidan has fallen silent, and says only, “My Lord, suffer,” as he wrenches all three blades upwards. They tear through god’s form and come free, leaving a shredded husk. Jashin’s head falls; rolls; comes to a halt several feet away and _stares_ , furious. God’s body crumples.

“Hidan—” Kakuzu begins, and Hidan holds up a hand. His body might give out, he thinks, if he doesn’t finish this now. The rain batters him, trying to knock him down but insufficient; almost negligible, as Hidan struggles against wounds and exhaustion and grief to stay standing. He approaches god’s head, swinging his scythe up over his uninjured shoulder.

“In gratitude, my Lord, for this gift you’ve given me, I’ll give you the ultimate peace.” He smiles, but it’s an oddly calm expression, for him—a small, almost sad smile. His crimson gaze is kind as he swings downward, and god is dispatched.

The rain ceases.

There’s a moment of true silence—not even the breath of those left alive is audible. Then Hidan sinks to his knees and prays, fervently, “Know peace in the ultimate end, in death. Be united with the universe in truth. Transcend, through ultimate suffering, and live forever. So be the will of Jashin-sama, blessed be Him.”

“Hidan.” Kakuzu’s voice is rough, but not unkind. Hidan turns, but Kakuzu’s back is to him; he’s bent over what remains of Jashin’s bodily form.

Hisan cracks a twisted, crooked smile. “Who loves you, old man?”

Kakuzu pulls out the heart, deliberately spared by Hidan’a cruel scythe. “I just hope the cursed thing doesn’t poison my blood.”

“You’re already dead,” Hidan scoffs. “Can’t do any harm to try it.”

Kakuzu gives a suffering sigh, but the black tendrils still unfurl from his chest and squirm over to the heart in his hand. They seem to hesitate, mulling it over, and then envelope the strange, bloodless organ. Kakuzu shudders as its drawn into his chest, the flesh stitching back together over it. He convulses, and Hidan watches with a gaze that’s barely concerned; mostly just curious.

When Kakuzu’s breathing stabilizes, Hidan motions him to turn. “Let me see, let me see! What’s the mask?”

Kakuzu turns, and Hidan gives a soft whistle. A black and white mask stares lifelessly back at him, painted like Hidan’s own face. Hidan approaches, though his leg nearly gives out on the way, and leans in; kisses the forehead of the mask lightly.

“Kami-chan, then,” he says, and Kakuzu scoffs.

“Come here. Let me see your injuries.”

Hidan gripes, but complies. They sink down together, and Kakuzu holds out his hands, and Hidan rolls his eye—the one he has left—but still lets Kakuzu pick up one of his hands. For the missing fingers, they scavenge parts of god, and Kakuzu sews the replacements on. With care he slides the ephemeral gray robe off Hidan’s shoulder; mends the gash where god’s scythe was lodged. Hidan twitches and fidgets and complains while he works, but doesn’t try to move away.

When he reaches the gaping hole in Hidan’s chest, Kakuzu simply mutters, “Damn shame... what a waste...” and closes up the wound.

Hidan’s skin fades back to its typical pale while Kakuzu works, although the bits stolen from Jashin—fingers, a couple patches of skin, left eyeball—maintain their curse-mark coloring. When Kakuzu finally draws back, Hidan blinks; gazes down at himself.

“You’re too good, Kuzu. You’re a fucking genius.”

Kakuzu shrugs. “Try not to wreck any of it. Especially that leg. Those threads won’t hold if you push them too far.”

Hidan scoffs, giving Kakuzu a sideways glance. “Yeah? I’m sure you’d fix it again if I fuck it up.”

Kakuzu glowers, and growls a warning when Hidan crawls up on top of him. But Hidan disregards it, draping himself over Kakuzu’s shoulder and nuzzling into his hair, mumbling half-formed thoughts that sound suspiciously like prayers.

Eventually, Kakuzu sighs; wraps one arm around Hidan’s back and holds him close. Hidan wriggles to get higher, although it really doesn’t effect their position, and then settles.

“... I was right.”

“Hhn?” Kakuzu sounds as irritated as he ever has in his unnaturally long life.

Hidan’s expression is smug, though his eyes are closed as he rubs his cheek against the side of Kakuzu’s head. “About god. And money didn’t get you anywhere, after all. Guess hell doesn’t care one way or another.”

“Hidan, shut up.”

“I wanna hear you admit it.”

“Not until the day I die. Maybe those will be my last words for you, hmm?”

Hidan scoffs. “Cheapskate. That’s just your way of saying _never_. Stingy.”

“Oh? You want me to die, now?”

“I wanna hear you admit it, asshole!”

Kakuzu chuckles, a low rumble of a sound deep in his chest. Hidan nearly purrs with pleasure, pressed against Kakuzu as he is. “You can die waiting.”

“Aah, Kuzu...”

Kakuzu threads his fingers though Hidan’s hair; deigns to kiss the top of Hidan’s head. The closest he’s ever come to believing in god is in that moment, and god is there, in his arms, mumbling inarticulate, disgruntled curses into the crook of Kakuzu’s neck.

If he admits that, though, he’ll never get a moment of peace again, so he contents himself with combing his fingers through god’s silver hair.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Wow_ I'm honestly not sure how this happened, but I'm hella proud of how it tuned out. Thank you for reading! :'D 
> 
> Please leave a comment and/or kudos, they really mean the world. <3


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